


Birdsong In The Trenches

by BirdyBanter



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Descriptions of war, Feelings, Fluff, M/M, Slow Build, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29696487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdyBanter/pseuds/BirdyBanter
Summary: John is alone in the worst place on earth. Harold is trying to continue without his best friend. They are both in need of something to hold on to.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Birdsong In The Trenches

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this mostly for myself, a bit indulgent but what can you do? I love an AU and when they come together in a different situation. I think John could need Harold here even more than in the show. I hope you enjoy the read.

John Riley was alone and not in the way that most people would feel in such an environment. He was properly alone. John supposed it should be a relief to have no one to grieve for him, no one left heart broken or that he had to worry about getting back to. But it was not a relief, because after all it also meant that he had no one to fight for, live for, or return to. Most hurtful of all it meant no one would miss him when he was gone. John Riley had no more than he came into this world with. In fact he had far, far less, having lost mother a long time ago. She was his last connection to this world. There was another woman who lit up his world but, in his signature, self-destructive style he had extinguished that flame. So he had nothing left.

John did not have to wait to die to go to hell. Knee deep as he was in the blood-drenched mud. Every day the same, wet, muddy, bitingly cold. The only thing that brought any warmth to his bitter cold bones was the heat of fear that branded itself to his skin. There was vermin of every kind in his trench and far too much mangled rotting flesh for them to feed on. The aches and pains had settled into him like birds into a winter’s nest. His neck and shoulders were especially bad. He had to keep his head bent down to avoid being shot. He had never hated being tall until he arrived there. The temptation to stand up fully straight was becoming overwhelming. All aches stopped forever with one, he considered to be merciful, bullet. 

These were the thoughts sinking into John as Sergeant Wilson stopped beside him. The Sergeant was a man that Riley had long since learnt to ignore. Not just because of his off-putting personality but because he was the one who handed out letters from home. He had been jealous the first time, of the men who got letters, raging with it. Ready to strangle anyone who took it for granted or was in any way unappreciative of what a gift it surely was. Like many other feelings, more than two years of war had numbed his envy away. He disappeared inside himself instead. That was until that day, that moment when Wilson said, ‘This is for you Riley.’

‘What? Can’t be.’

‘That’s your name isn’t it?’ Wilson showed him the letter.

John fumbled for the letter to the obvious amusement of Wilson.

John couldn’t care less. He was sure the letter had been misdirected, meant for some other John Riley, lucky bastard. Probably from his sweetheart, he opened it anyway.

Dear Mr Riley,

I am sure you are confused as to why a perfect stranger is writing to you. Allow me to explain, my name is Harold Wren, and I was a friend of your late Uncle Sedric. Sedric was not only a true friend but also my mentor. I owe him everything. I was going through some of his paperwork and I found some information about you in one of his diaries. I unearthed enough information about you afterwards to make sure this letter would find you. I trust you don’t mind this well-meaning intrusion.

I hope this letter finds you well, or as well as can be expected. I am also hopeful that you will write back to me to tell me that this is the case. You can write anything to me Mr Riley in the sure and certain knowledge that nothing you write will shock or disturb me. I know what it is like to be far from home and in a dangerous and unsettling environment. I was a young man when the last war started and so was called up halfway through. Those were the longest two years of my life. I’m still not sure how I made it through and I still feel the effects to this day. I do not say this to upset you, only to assure you of my understanding and willingness to read any words you need to send me. 

I suppose I should tell you a little about myself. Not that there is much to tell. I wouldn’t wish to bombard you anyway and besides you never know who else might be reading this letter.

I am an academic and scholar in the field of mathematics and science. Your Uncle and I worked closely on many projects. I miss him dearly not only as a colleague but also as perhaps my only true friend. I have no family Mr. Riley and am a long-standing bachelor. This may be due to my absolute dedication to my work or something more profound. I cannot say. I love study and reading is a passion of mine. I also enjoy a challenge and solving puzzles. I do the crossword every day. I also walk as much as possible. I usually take my beloved dog Bear along to play fetch. Anyway, that’s probably quite enough about me. I cannot profess to be the best letter writer; short business letters and telegrams are usually all I manage. And normally there are more stops than actual words. I hope my curt style doesn’t put you off reading further. I lack flare and colourfulness I know. Everything I write is written down like a fact not much embellishment, apologies. 

I will gladly receive any and all letters you would be so kind as to send. I will write again soon, a few weeks probably. I know the post can be unreliable so if you decide not to correspond with me and write to tell me so, I will of course stop immediately but you may still receive some back dated letters, which you can just discard.

I wanted to finish by stating that your Uncle was a good man. I owe him a lot, everything, my life in fact. I never really had the chance to repay him in full. He was very fond of you. This is a fact that you may not be aware of, he was a very private man, like myself. And I think you reminded him of his late brother in a way that was hard for him. I wish he could be writing to tell you this himself. But as that is not possible, I felt compelled to write to you myself. You may no longer have your Uncle Mr Riley, but you have me. If that is something you might want.

Yours faithfully   
Harold Wren

John read over those words again and again; You have me. It was like this man; this Harold Wren had somehow known just how lost and alone John was feeling and had come into his life at exactly the right moment to stop his feelings of utter despair in their tracks. How was that possible? A few moments ago, he’d had nothing and no one but now he had something, someone to hold on to. John clutched the letter in his fist almost tearing it, his grip was so hard. Of course talking to this man, exchanging letters, was something he wanted. He needed it badly.

In his next moment to himself John started to write a letter back to Harold. He had an address, a name and in his mind a picture of a friendly face. He couldn’t know what Harold looked like but he chose an image similar to his favourite teacher in school, a fairly short man, always smartly turned out and with round spectacles usually perched on the end of his nose. He often looked over the top of them John recalled, when he wanted to connect with one of his favourite students. ‘If you really put your mind to it John, I know you have what it takes to make a real difference.’ John remembered the man saying that, John hadn’t bought it even as a nine-year-old but it was nice to have someone believe in him all the same, that rarely happened. 

He was hoping Harold would be like Mr Robinson, in some ways John thought he already was, he seemed to care. John was also glad to note that Harold had a countryside address at least that meant he didn’t have to worry about bombs dropping on him like he would if he’d lived in London or another major city. He had a need for this man to stay safe and continue to be his connection to the world. He reminded himself that he could say anything to this man and once he started he discovered that the words flowed easily. 

They had written back and forth about half a dozen times and never ran out of things to discuss. The letters became more of a conversation than a simple correspondence. It was almost as if he could hear Harold in his head even though he had never heard the man’s voice. That thought and a few others made their communication bitter sweet. He could not hear the man as long as he was at war. But it occurred to him he could fill in some other details. Harold could be more than just words on a page, wonderful as they were. He could put a face to the name. So in his next letter with only a slight tingle of nerves he got up the courage to ask Harold for something.

‘I would like a picture of you, if that wouldn’t be any trouble, just so I can put a face to the name.’

He waited a little anxiously for the response, a delay in the post by almost two weeks didn’t help.

‘That would be no trouble at all Mr Riley. But are you sure. I know what men and in particular soldiers can be like. A picture of a man instead of a sweetheart might cause you problems.’

Harold was always considerate and overly concerned for his wellbeing. Which John thought was sweet but a little odd because he himself barely gave himself much thought. 

‘Thanks for the concern, some of the lads aren’t very mature you’re right. And only some have the excuse of still being boys. But some have photos of Dads, Uncles and brothers so I think it would be fine for you to send a picture of yourself, if that’s okay Professor Wren.’ It wasn’t exactly true, just one lad had a photo of his brother killed in battle but a little exaggeration wouldn’t hurt, anything to ease Harold’s reservations. 

The second reply was quicker and delighted John.

‘Of course, I had not thought of that, pictures of family are acceptable. And as your Uncle’s dear friend, I do of course consider myself a friend of your family. I hope you know I am your friend Mr. Riley and I would be honoured to be classed as family. I have included a photograph of myself, it isn’t the best but then I’m not the best subject. But I would say it is a fair likeness.’ 

The man in the in the photograph looked far too serious and a bit like the camera might steal his soul or something, possibly like it might bite. But the man’s eyes spoke of his nature, light coloured and big, open. He wore a suit and a bow tie. Much like the teacher John had pictured but the hair was a little messy, untameable, John thought. He had a kind face John decided. This picture was like gold dust to John, he would keep it close to his heart in his upper pocket, left side. 

John decided with that one triumph that he would try for another victory with this wonderful man. If he could just advance them to being on a first name basis. He already thought of Professor Wren as Harold in the privacy of his own head. So if he could get Harold to think of him not as Private Riley or as he called him Mr. Riley but instead as just plain old John, then they would be getting somewhere and he could write letters to his Harold and Harold could address the letters he sent to him to simply John. That would make them more familiar, less formal like true friends. 

John knew he could tell Harold anything and he had shared details of his experiences that he wouldn’t have with anyone else but there was one thing he didn’t want to tell him. Harold had been right about the photograph and the stick he could get from the other men. But it wasn’t some silly young boy who had started in on him it was Private Winston, an unfortunate name for someone who was a cowardly creep. And allergic to anything that required responsibility. He was immature but his age was no excuse for this, him being only two years younger than John at twenty-seven. In an environment like theirs maturity was usually reached more swiftly than in the civilian world but this man, more than any other John had met was the exception to the rule. 

John had been minding his own business, hunkered down in his usual sleeping area and enjoying a sneaky peek at his much-treasured picture of Harold when Winston had trudged past. He caught the sappy smile on John’s face before he could school his features. 

‘What you got there O’Riley, dirty pic of your bit of stuff?’

The idiot always put the O in front of his name, knowing full well it didn’t belong there. He had to make something of John being a mick, single him out in some way. He liked to do that, exploit a weakness, use even the slightest difference to use as a stick to beat someone with. John’s family had come from Ireland, but they had come to England several generations back and no one could justifiably call him Irish. Not that he was ashamed of his Celtic roots, in fact he was proud of them and that’s why it pissed him off so much that a shit like Winston used them as a put down, the way he always spit him name out like it was disgusting. 

‘I’m not Irish, not that there’d be any shame in it if I were. Nothing like the shame Churchill would feel knowing someone like you shared his name.’ 

That got a laugh from some of the nearby chaps.

‘It’s my surname not my-‘

‘Keep moving Winny, no one has any interest in anything that come out of that hole of yours.’ John tried to warn with a snarl.

Quick as a flash, Winston’s arm came out and grabbed the photograph out of John’s hand. John knew he should have pocketed it but he thought that would have only encouraged the idiots curiosity. Big mistake.

Winston barked out a laugh.

‘Hey fellas Johnny boys got himself a boyfriend. No woman wants you so you got a little old queer tucked away have you.’ With that he showed the photograph to the nearest man to him, who passed it to the man beside him and so on. They were disgusted looks and murmurs and a laugh or two. 

He wanted to defend Harold, say he wasn’t little, old or queer. Say he was only in his forties, a hero of the last war. But those words wouldn’t come out instead he voiced a defensive lie.

‘He’s my Uncle alright, last of my family, now give it here you little bastard.’

‘Oh yeah ‘coz everyone moons over their Uncle like that.’ Winston now had the photograph back and was sneering at it. 

John wrestled it back off him and said as calmly as possible. ‘I’m not moonin’ I’m just thinking about home and family is all.’

Winston laughed and gestured at John but unlike before there was no mumblings or snickers from the others, they instead seemed disinterested in his jibes. Perhaps John had thought, instead they were most likely lost in their own thoughts of home and in missing their families. 

John knew he had to be more careful with the photograph after that but he also felt a strange buzz at the thought that the photograph of Harold, dressed up as he was did have something in common with the glamorous, dolled up pictures other men had of their sweethearts. And Winston’s suggestion that Harold was his boyfriend should have worried him, repulsed him even but instead it sent an illicit thrill through him. Which in turn should have concerned him but he found it most decidedly did not.

Letters from Harold he decided were like a warm winter coat, soothing aches and pains, keeping out the chill and the icy fingers of despair. Harold was his protection against an evil storm that raged all around him. And then there were the care packages, everything of the kind and generous man went into them. Like fruit cake that somehow wasn’t as rock hard as others the chaps had been sent from home and the biscuits that kept long enough to be enjoyed almost until the next package arrived. And then there was the knitted hat and the think woollen socks. The socks came with a little note that said simply, ‘Feet are important John, can’t afford to let them get damaged. An army may march on its stomach but can’t walk at all without its feet.’ Whether intended or not, Harold’s quirky, wry way of putting things often tickled John. 

Harold also tried in all his letters to bring beauty to the ugliness that surrounded John. He was enchanted by poetry and tried to share his passion for it with John and instead of the obvious poets like Owen or even Sassoon, he did his best to raise John’s spirts with his favourite nature poets such as Wordsworth and Clare. These were men John could relate to with his limited knowledge of their work. After all he was no stranger to wandering lonely and often had cause to state; ‘I am - yet what I am, none cares or knows.’ He used to feel that way intensely but not since Harold. His world was split into before Harold and after Harold. The man gave John something to hold onto, he hadn’t been given that gift by anyone else. When he felt lost and desolate it was Harold’s voice he heard, the words he wrote spoken in a warm, loving, honey smooth voice conjured by John’s imagination. Harold’s hand stroking his cheek often went with the wonderfully comforting voice. 

Harold occasionally penned his own poems, he himself confessed he was no poet but he put his optimism and wonder at the simple things into them. ‘The scent of roses, lavender and honeysuckle are so rare and therefore sweet, amongst the flowers is my favourite place to meet.’ That was a line from a poem about Harold’s country house garden. John had read that poem so many times he could picture it, with Harold sitting waiting for him to join him amongst the beauty of the flowers. He believed that Harold was telling him that there would still be beauty, simple pleasures and easy contentment waiting after the grotesque horrors of war. Harold would be the home fire he could return to and warm his soul by. After war maybe peace could come even to John. 

Harold also encouraged him to find ways to take himself away from his current situation. In the breaks, few as they were, from gunfire and explosions he advised John to listen for the gentle beauty of the natural world, the wind whistling, rain dropping softly, and of course the sound of the odd bird. John didn’t really expect to hear that last sound. And he had never before tried, the quiet moments when they came were always more of a cause for concern, they weren’t the familiar background noises and that made him nervous if anything. He viewed them as strange, out of place like the calm before the storm. But after Harold’s suggestion he listened, really listened. And heard more than anticipation in the silence. The simple peacefulness, that only natural sounds give that man made ones never can. It was another way Harold kept the fear at bay. And then one day the beautiful creature that gave such comfort to John appeared. He just landed on a soldier’s helmet, to the left of where John was sitting. 

It didn’t look like much, just a small, rather delicate looking, plain brown bird. But as it tweeted a little for John, he knew it was this wonderful sound, this magical singer who he heard in the pauses in the never-ending battle. John wanted to move to where he kept his paper and pencil but knew if he did his little companion would have flown off by the time he returned so instead he sat and enjoyed the moment and in so doing he tried his best to commit the details of the little bird to memory so he could sketch it later at his leisure. 

John freely looked at Harold’s picture whenever he felt the need which was more and more often. He hadn’t gotten anymore stick about it either. Though they wouldn’t admit it all the men were scared and would grab onto any scrap of comfort they could find. Of course, the main reason no one was giving him any bother was the ringleader was gone. Churchie as the chaps had teasingly started calling him had been shot a week back. John could not spare any sympathy for a man like Winston. The only shame of it was he had tried to dive behind the man beside him, Michaels had been a good man and all the men felt his loss. Winston diving behind him showed his true nature and cowardice. The bullet had passed through Michaels anyway and into Winston and killed both men. It was no more than Winston deserved but John had never been one to revel in another’s misfortune. But it did mean that there was no longer a bully boy doing the rounds and he couldn’t help but be a tad relieved. He was lighter now that he could indulge in openly reading Harold’s words and smiling at the thought of him. 

The next letter from Harold contained something so sweet it almost brought tears to John’s eyes. Harold had written, ‘Just a little something from my garden, hope it makes it to you intact. If not, simply know I was thinking of you when I picked them.’ The pressed flowers had crumbled some but as John held what was left up to his face, for a brief moment he was transported to a magical English garden in Sussex and the special man who thought of him while picking sweet smelling flowers. He resolved to send Harold the picture of the bird he had been trying to perfect for weeks, it was no work of art but then Harold had written him poetry fully acknowledging he was no poet so John was sure he would not judge the ‘Artist’ too harshly. 

The letters kept coming although with bigger gaps in between, the post unreliable. Harold had confessed to John that he had been worried about him. He knew that as he was not officially John’s family he would not be informed if he were injured or worse killed. Harold’s concern and fear for him however made him feel to John more like family than anyone he had ever been biologically related to. His mother notwithstanding, she was the exception and always would be. The seasons went by, spring bled into summer and summer in turn surrendered to winter. And then in November peace was declared. The end of the war had finally come. John should have been relived and while the thought of peace did make him glad, he still felt at sea. This was his place, the environment he had learnt as best he could, to survive in. It had taken almost two and a half years for him to be conscripted because he had a nomadic existence, moving from place to place finding work where he could but eventually the draft found him. He had been amongst comrades here if not true friends and it was all he had known for the past three and a half years. And in the trenches that three years felt like an eternity and he hadn’t fully expected to make it out of there. His head was bombarded with disquieting thoughts and fears. Where would his place be now? Could there be one for a damaged soldier, they were forever changed these men and none more so than John.

The last year had been the longest and shortest of his life. His days marked in time by letters from his friend and time had no meaning when he lost himself in those soothing words but all the other minutes even sometimes when in the thick of things, had dragged with a slow-motion quality. Like a nightmare however hard you tell yourself isn’t real, can’t be happening, you simply cannot wake up. But it was over, the fighting was done with. But perhaps the battle was only just beginning. The men around him were either in stunned relief or singing in celebration. But soon they would all go home; except he had no home to go to. 

He took out Harold’s latest letter and read, ‘I have heard the war is to end John, peace will be wonderful after so long without it and you will be coming home and that will be wonderful too.’ He took out Harold’s photograph and studied the man’s face trying to decide if the words were mere kindness or an invitation. Would it be too much to hope for that his peace could be found in a beautiful English garden with this wonderful English gentleman? John hoped not.

**Author's Note:**

> To any history buffs I used artistic licence here. I am aware that there was not as much trench warfare in the second world war and that soldiers didn't stay in the trenches for as long. But it worked better for this fic for John to stay put. Thanks for reading and I'm glad of any feedback.


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